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I hate blogs, including this one. There, I said it. I can admit it, blogs suck, they are evil creatures. Without blogs, it’s fair to say the world would be a much better place.

I remember when I first heard about blogs, I thought they would be a great idea. But like most things, they are only enjoyable when experienced in moderation. Nowadays everyone has a blog. Most likely even your Mom has a blog.

There are blogs about food, music, movies, bikes, stuff white people like, pop-culture, design, politics… Then there are blogs that deal with all of the above and more. There are even blogs about blogs. It’s too much, there are too many, the Internet is too flooded with them. I’ve even seen blogs about religion. If the post I read was true, and there is a God… Please help, please eliminate all of the blogs in the world, including this one. Thanks God.

Sarah Palin’s fame is even credited to a blog. Before some small political blog raved about her, she was widely unknown; man I miss those days. But now, thanks to some stupid blog, her face and annoying smug little smile is everywhere for everyone to see. And what do we know about the blogger who first praised this woman? Well of course we know he’s an idiot, because after all, he praised Sarah Palin… But besides that, we don’t know anything about him. Why does his opinion even matter? For all we know he could worship Captain Kirk, his diet could consist solely of Cheetos and Reb Bull and he could be planning to marry his sister when he grows up.

That’s my point; blogs would maybe be useful or entertaining if they were used by important people to say intelligent or funny things. Now I know what you’re thinking, ‘Who determines who is intelligent or funny enough to get a blog?” I don’t know the answer to that question, me maybe? But I know this; someone has to do something. They used to do this back in the good old-fashioned days when people still read newspapers. The people who made these decisions were called editors and the people they chose to push their views, humor and or opinions onto you were called columnists, and it was awesome.

Now, as I’ve said before, columnists are dead, and the only thing that’s left in their place are bloggers and tweeters (is tweeter what you call a person who uses Twitter?). If you have a blog, most likely I’ve read it to kill time at work, and most likely I think less of you for having it; just like my self-esteem goes down several points every time I click the publish button on this blog.

At times I wish I lived in China where they restricted things like Facebook, people’s blogs and other information. It must be nice to not be so overwhelmed with all this bullshit. I understand that you might think I’m crazy for feeling this way and I might have offended you, but I don’t really care. What are you going to do, blog about it?

Yesterday, after ten years of eating what most of my friends referred to as twigs and bark, I finally ate what they consider to be “real food.” After a decade of having a cow-free mouth, I chewed and swallowed a 1/2-pound of cow at happy hour.

It was an interesting experience. I didn’t feel any guilt about it at the time; after all, killing an animal was never the reason I gave up eating meat in the first place. I became a vegetarian after learning about all of the hormones that go into today’s meat. But the piece of a cow that I ate belonged to a cow who was “hormone-free and grass feed.”

It’s pretty crazy to me that those things even need to be on a menu. Cow’s digestive systems aren’t meant to eat anything but grass, but something tells me the people who don’t know this, or care to know this, are fine to eat any type of cow, even the mad ones which feed on bits of other cows and newspapers and all sorts of things. And I’m sure they don’t care that the typical cow ingests more pharmaceuticals than Janis Joplin did in her lifetime.

After I starter to think about it, I started replaying vegetarian-propaganda bumper stickers over and over in my head- meat is murder. And then I started to feel badly about it.

But I’d like to the think the piece of cow that I ate came from a really depressed cow; one that kept itself in really great shape, but deep down was really just unhappy with life and was going to commit suicide any day now. I’d also like to think that if the cow knew how to read and write, it would’ve written a suicide note that stated, “When I’m gone, please serve me up on an onion bun with garlic lemon aioli, pepper bacon, lettuce, onion, tomato, and a choice of Rogue blue cheese or Tillamook white cheddar, ketchup and mustard, with an ice-cold IPA.”

Then I read the menu a bit closer and saw the piece of cow I ate came from a place in Oregon called Strawberry Mountain. I started to think about it, and the more I thought about it, the more I thought of how wonderful Strawberry Mountain sounded. In fact, Strawberry Mountain sounds like the nicest, happiest place on earth. Who could be depressed there? Surely not a cow who sat around all day in the sun eating grass; one who had no care in the world until its life was cut tragically short and then served up to me on an onion bun with garlic lemon aioli, pepper bacon, lettuce, onion, tomato, and Tillamook white cheddar, ketchup and mustard, with an ice-cold IPA. Damn it! Now I feel like an asshole. I should’ve never eaten that bit of cow!

But what’s done is done, and now I feel like I owe it to that cow to at least let it spend the rest of eternity with those it knew and loved. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to happy hour; I’ve got a reunion to attend to.

A few months back, my wife bought me an iPhone; I’m pretty sure she’s regretted it everyday since. She claims to be looking into support groups that help people who have a problem with their cell phone. I told her I’m not addicted; I’m simply exploring it and learning about all of the thousands of helpful apps. I’m know that somewhere out there is a programmer who is writing an app that will help me convince my wife that not only am I not playing with my iPhone too much, I’m not playing with it enough.

But in all seriousness, the iPhone is pretty amazing and I find myself wondering on a daily basis how I ever lived without one. Something tells me I was simply more resourceful, but I like to pretend like I was barely getting by before this invention.

It seems like ages ago when I would have to leaf through hundreds of thousands of dull-colored yellow pages looking for the number to the local movie theater. Then there was always the dilemma of whether they listed it under “theaters” or “movies.” I never remembered which one it was. Then there was the robotic woman’s voice that would slowly read out each movie, its run time, rating and all of the possible show times. Her voice haunts me to this day. Now I simply have an app that lists all of the movie times in my area, or I use my voice controlled Google search app to find the exact theater I’m looking for.

Technology is amazing, and it has made our lives unbelievably easy, but it does have its down sides. Before my iPhone days, I always carried a mini notebook and pen on my persons to scribble down all of the things I loved or hated about life at that particular moment. Sure I don’t miss forgetting to take the pen out of my pants before washing them, only to have the pen explode in the dryer and have the ink permanently heated into every thread of my clothing; but there is something about writing on actual pieces of paper. Lately I find myself typing all of my random thoughts into the notepad app on my phone, and although it looks like I’m typing on a legal pad, it’s just not the same.